Preacher (The Untouchables MC 5)

I stopped short at the sight that greeted me. One of the neighborhood gangbangers lay on the ground, covered in leather and torn denim. I recognized the teen and the sneer on his face. Preacher’s long hair was covering his face, so I couldn’t see him. He had the shooter’s wrist flat to the ground and was clearly squeezing. As I watched, the guy’s hand opened and the gun fell.

“Get off me, motherfucker. That bitch had it coming. Fucking trannie freak!”

And Clarice, my sweet Clarice, stood there, her arms wrapped around her slender frame, looking like she’d seen a ghost. She’d told me she was used to ignorant people mistreating her, but I knew it couldn’t be easy. I went to her, gently trying to pull her away.

“Don’t listen to him. He’s foolish and ignorant.”

She shook her head.

“I know that. It’s not that. It’s . . .” she looked at me and I realized she was in shock. “Your man is shot.”

My eyes flew to Preacher. I didn’t see any blood. He was trying to move, to get a knee into the kid’s abdomen. He saw me start toward him.

“Do not even think about coming near us. Get as far away as you can.”

I stared at him, not understanding.

“GO!” he screamed at me, and it jolted me awake. I backed away until I bumped into someone. A hand came down on my shoulder to steady me. “Clarice, take my woman away from this gun, please. Take the kids, too.”

“I don’t wanna leave you,” she said tearfully.

“Me either,” Marcus piped up.

“I will see all of you back at the church once the police get here and take this gun away,” he ground out, clearly in pain. Through his hair, I could see his blue eyes as they locked with mine like lasers. “I’m not going to tell you twice, darlin’.”

I left, but only long enough to get the kids to the annex. He was right that they shouldn’t be there. Aunt Julia got busy doling out homemade cookies and apple juice. I settled Clarice into a chair and got her a cup of coffee, my mind back at the street corner where I’d left Preacher. It didn’t feel right to leave him there alone.

“He got shot. He was defending my honor,” she said tonelessly.

“That’s what friends do,” I said distractedly. But I knew it was true. Preacher would protect and defend the ones he cared about, even if he got hurt in the process.

Hurt, or worse.

She nodded tearfully.

“He’d better not die. I’ll kill him,” she said fiercely. Then she looked at me. “What the hell are you doing here? Go and get your man!”

I turned on my heel.

“But hang back if the cops aren’t there yet. If you get shot too, Preacher will skin me!”

“All right,” I called out over my shoulder, not stopping.

“Promise me!”

“I promise,” I shouted as I skidded into the hallway and turned toward the street.

I took off at a run.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Preacher

Sunlight. Darkness. Fluorescents.

I blinked and the lights seemed to change. I blinked again. I saw faces and heard voices, but I couldn’t make out who they were.

“Cynthia . . .” a hoarse voice whispered. Was that me? I couldn’t tell.

I only knew that I wanted Cynthia.

The pain was dull, but stronger than expected. Had I crashed my ride? Gotten stabbed by a jealous husband? One I didn’t know about, because I drew the line at breaking up marriages, generally speaking.

Oh, that’s right. I’d gotten shot.

A voice murmured something about giving me something to help with the pain.

I smiled as some sort of drug went into my veins. I was floating now, the pain gone. But I still wanted my woman, dammit. She was mine, right? She had forgiven me.

But I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t remember.

Cynthia . . .

“I think he’s waking up . . .” a familiar voice said consolingly. “The doctor’s said he’s gonna be okay, Cynth. Try and relax a little.”

“I can’t believe he did this. He just threw himself on a loaded weapon!”

My eyes cracked open at the tone of my sweetheart’s voice. She sounded pissed. Really pissed. But what she said next filled my heart with joy.

“He’s going to be a father! He can’t go around doing stupid ass shit like that anymore! And people around here need him. I need him!”

“Tsk, tsk. Such language from a lady.”

“Oh, give me a break,” she said sourly. I hadn’t heard that tone of voice in a while. Not since I first met her.

Back when she hated my ass.

I was alive, I realized. I was still alive, and my woman was worried about me. Which meant . . .

My eyes opened.

“Come here, woman.”

Cynthia stared at me, still wearing her cute little outfit from the street fair. I frowned, pretty sure a couple of days had passed. Had she been here the whole time?